


Jealous of the Moon

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday Presents, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Dean's Birthday, Hand Feeding, Hot Tub, Hotels, M/M, Massage, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 02:29:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5810089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel lied—Castiel took him to a tourist town in the middle of the Appalachians just to be alone with him. He falls onto the king bed with a thud, hands on his knees. <i>We’re alone</i>, he considers, closing his eyes. <i>Alone</i>. “Why?” is all he can muster, his heart beating a rapid rhythm in his chest.</p><p>Castiel helps him out of his jacket and unbuttons the first two buttons of his shirt, loosening the fabric with gentle hands. “It’s your birthday on Sunday,” Castiel says, contemplative, before he lowers himself to his knees on the beige-and-green carpet between Dean’s legs, hands on his thighs. It’s intimate—it’s almost too much for him to even understand. “When was the last time you got to relax?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jealous of the Moon

Dean has a list—a list of events in his life he never wants to repeat, no matter how much anyone pays him or whose life is at stake. Hell is in his top three. Driving through the Smoky Mountains during a major blizzard just to dispatch a ghost haunting a five-star resort? Quickly climbing to the top of things he never wants to go through _again_. Whenever they get back to Kansas, Dean will be thoroughly kicking his brother’s ass for even _thinking_ this was a brilliant idea. Conveniently Sam had left out the fact that the sky was attempting to dump more than twenty inches of snow over the mountains and the entire eastern seaboard and sent both Dean and Castiel on their way, Castiel not looking perturbed at _all_ about the proceedings.

In fact, Castiel’s downright _thrilled_. For someone so ancient, the sight of snow never ceases to fascinate him. It’s different here, compared to the white-out they get in the plains. Weeks of near freezing temperatures and snow stretching for miles in every direction, and yet this is somehow more interesting, at least to the Angel. Here, snow covers the branches of the dead pines they pass, flakes falling in thick clumps onto their windshield and blanketing the road even further. Their only indicator is the tracks made by what looks to be a massive truck, the snow squashed in two equidistant paths, already covered with at least an inch, maybe more.

They shouldn't be on the road—shouldn't even be _considering_ taking a case when they can barely see three feet ahead of them. The Impala’s wipers are working triple time just to keep up, snow already covering the hood. “This better be fuckin’ worth it,” Dean grouses and leans forward, eyeing the clouds through the barrage raining down. In spite, the sky spits harder until Dean’s forced to a crawl, inching along down some back road in bumfuck Tennessee. At least the chains are holding up, but for how long is the question.

Pigeon Forge is at a standstill when they eventually creep through, but at least the roads are clear, a few brave tourists driving to and from restaurants and shopping centers, probably trying to scrounge up the last loaves of bread in the entire state. Castiel watches out the passenger side window at the snow plows driving past and the banks on the side of the road, already two feet high, fresh accumulation just piling on top. “It’s beautiful,” Castiel comments as soon as they exit the town, disappearing into the woods with a few miles between Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg. _Not much longer_ , Dean hopes.

“It’d be beautiful if it didn’t stain the paint,” Dean complains, hands gripping the steering wheel. Inwardly he regrets not pulling into a curb store back in town; they have enough gas to get them there, but his stomach is overdue and Castiel’s not looking any better. Right now, he just hopes the engine will keep on, based on how she’s chugging snow. “Where’re we staying, anyway?” he asks, side-eying Castiel.

“I booked us a room at the Hilton,” Castiel supplies, feet up on the dashboard and hands in his lap.

Dean blinks—blinks again, because the last he knew, Castiel wasn’t made of money, and just the _name_ was enough to make his wallet hurt. “Where’d—How’d you afford that?” Dean sputters and accidentally taps the brake, startling Castiel into putting his feet back into the foot well where they belong.

“We still have a sizeable amount from when you sold the Cadillac last month,” Castiel says, rubbing his hands together. “The most we’ve spent it on is food and gas. On the road as we are, don’t you think we should stay somewhere nice?”

Nice isn’t a problem—he can find nice in a motel, especially in a tourist town. The Hilton is well above his pay grade, with Jacuzzi tubs and balconies and room service. Just the thought of food has him salivating. But since Castiel is paying, maybe Dean can talk him into getting them dinner before they brave the elements to interview witnesses. “Might be nice,” Dean admits, sheepish. At his side, Castiel smiles, just enough to be visible. Dean’s heart flutters against his will.

Just the sentiment is enough to warm him until they make it past the endless forest and into town, the light of gas station signs and restaurants and tourist traps filling the void laid out by the weather. Castiel directs him through town past the T.G.I. Fridays and a Hampton Inn, hanging a right until he can see the blue-roofed portico of the Hilton Garden Inn. Just from the façade, he figures he’s in over his head; the most he’s willing to spend on a motel is around fifty, maybe sixty—this has to be double that, maybe triple, depending on what room Castiel booked.

Which turns out to be the _executive_ suite. Dean carts their duffels to the elevator after Castiel checks them in, under the name Castiel Winchester. Really, that should’ve been his first clue. His second comes in the form of red roses on the bedspread of the swankiest room he’s ever walked into. Fresh white linens, a jetted tub in the corner, an actual dresser with a functioning flat screen television hanging on the wall above it, a kitchenette with a coffee maker—and _red rose petals_.

It sounded fishy from the start, he reminisces, the luggage cart forgotten as he takes a petal between his fingers. Ghosts haunting a resort only built within the last few years, guests reporting shadowy figures and complaining of burning scratches and strange odors. Typical haunting scenario—but it didn't make sense. No reported murders on that property, no witnesses that were willing to come forward, and nothing had been published in any reputable paper, or at least, none that he had been allowed to see.

“You lied,” Dean mumbles. Castiel closes their room door and locks it behind him, the cart now pushed into the hallway leading to the bathroom; he nods when he joins Dean in the room, now a scant few inches away, his fingers toying with the knot of Dean’s tie. They had changed into their suits as soon as they passed the border into Tennessee, mostly because it was warmer than the t-shirts they had dressed in when they left St. Louis that morning.

“You wouldn’t’ve come with me otherwise,” Castiel hums, a finger pulling the knot free; he slides Dean’s tie off and sets it on the bedspread, bright green standing out against stark white.

Dean watches him without making a move to stop him, his limbs unwilling to move on their own. Castiel lied—Castiel took him to a tourist town in the middle of the Appalachians just to be alone with him. He falls onto the king bed with a thud, hands on his knees. _We’re alone_ , he considers, closing his eyes. _Alone_. “Why?” is all he can muster, his heart beating a rapid rhythm in his chest.

Castiel helps him out of his jacket and unbuttons the first two buttons of his shirt, loosening the fabric with gentle hands. “It’s your birthday on Sunday,” Castiel says, contemplative, before he lowers himself to his knees on the beige-and-green carpet between Dean’s legs, hands on his thighs. It’s intimate—it’s almost too much for him to even understand. “When was the last time you got to relax?”

 _A long time_ , he wants to say. His life— _their_ life—doesn't allow for vacations or respites, or sometimes even time to eat or sleep. He and Sam have been running on empty for years, himself for more than a decade, nearing two. Just the longing for a normal life, a _quiet_ life, hurts, aches in his bones. And Castiel wants to give him that? “What, you had me drive through Tennessee Hell so you can put the moves on me?” he laughs, going for irritated; it comes out forlorn, his heart not in it.

Castiel runs his hands over Dean’s thighs once, twice, before he stands, warm palms cupping his cheeks. Dean looks up at him with hazy eyes, knowing full and well what Castiel sees on his face: sleeplessness, the exhaustion that’s become so deeply ingrained in him that it’s almost normal, bone-deep despair. And with it, the slightest sliver of hope that his life will right itself. That he’ll get better. “I want to help you feel better,” Castiel says, and lowers one of his hands to rest over Dean’s heart, no doubt feeling the harsh rhythm there, erratic and terrified. “I can tend to your physical wounds, but I can’t… Emotions, I’m afraid I’ll never be able to heal.”

“You don’t have to,” Dean says, lowering his head. Castiel just runs a hand through his hair and pets his nape, the touch soothing his frayed nerves. Castiel can say no—they can stay the weekend here and pretend it was a joke, and go home and keep pretending.

But if Castiel is anything, he’s the most stubborn person Dean’s ever known. “I want to,” Castiel says, and lowers his forehead to rest against Dean’s hair, his mouth exhaling warmth against his scalp. “For both of us. Think of it as my present to you.”

Dean laughs, hollow. Futilely, he wipes at the budding wetness under his eyes, praying Castiel doesn't notice. “Least you coulda done was drive,” he sighs. Castiel pulls back enough to drape his arms around Dean’s neck, Dean returning the gesture and, arms around Castiel’s waist, digging his fingers into Castiel’s dress shirt, so, so warm. “Sam talk you into this?”

“It was our idea, actually,” Castiel says, a hand in Dean’s hair, fingers rubbing soft circles against his neck. “I get you for this weekend, and Sam’s planning to take you out once we get back. We’ll just have to tell him to avoid snow for the foreseeable future.”

It’s a nice sentiment, really, splitting him up between the two people who love him the most, letting them show him how much they care in such different ways. All it does is force tears to his eyes; he smothers them in Castiel’s shirt, too ashamed to let him see his face when he’s like this, so worn to the bone, barely in control of his faculties. It’s been a long few days, for both of them. “You’re too soft on me,” Dean says, quiet. “Never figured you for the weekend getaway type.”

“I think I picked the wrong weekend for our excursion, though,” Castiel chuckles. Dean’s hands clutch Castiel’s hips when he pulls away, just enough to let Castiel’s fingers stroke Dean’s clavicle under his shirt, the pressure eliciting a quiet moan. “I couldn't afford to take you to a spa, and I know you wouldn't appreciate strangers touching you. So,” Castiel pauses to trail his finger up Dean’s neck and press over his lower lip, wet and full against the digit. “I thought I could be your masseur for the evening.”

Dean snorts a laugh, utterly ruining the moment Castiel was trying to build. “’M sorry,” he apologizes, too chipper about it. “’M sorry, just… _You_?”

Castiel just rolls his eyes and taps Dean’s chin, capturing his attention again. “I’ve been practicing on your brother for the better half of the year. Considering he no longer laughs at me, I think my technique has improved.”

Dean thinks on this. Rarely, very rarely, he’ll let someone touch him—his bare skin—in a nonsexual manner, almost always to stitch him back together or pop a bone back in place. Castiel’s touches differ, only to steady Dean’s worries or heal things even Sam can’t fix with nylon thread. But this is new—Castiel wants to touch him, _all_ of him, bare and spread out under his fingertips. The idea sends a warm curl up his chest, no doubt visible to Castiel’s gaze. Shame burns bright in his gut, just from _wanting_ it as much as he does.

If he’s honest with himself, he’s wanted it for longer than is probably healthy.

“…Go ahead,” he sighs, finally. Castiel cups his cheeks in both hands and leans down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead; Dean fights back the gasp it creates, Castiel’s lips holding so much intent, so many promises. He steadies himself before he continues, “But the minute things start getting freaky—.”

“I won’t do anything that I won’t consult you with beforehand,” Castiel affirms. Thumbing Dean’s temple, he draws back, allowing Dean’s hands to fall from where they’d been resting on his hips. “Shower, first. I’ll set up and order room service. What would you like?”

Dean shrugs, his face burning. “You pick,” he answers, head bowed. Castiel is in charge here—in some perverse way, he _wants_ Castiel to control him, make him feel good, at least for one weekend. And for his _birthday_ —even better.

He takes his time in the shower, the water pressure a godsend compared to the last motel they stayed in; this one doesn't spit rusted water and can actually keep the temperature hot, rather than suddenly shifting to cold with no prior notice. He’s still pretty sure the neighbors two doors down heard him shouting; Castiel had been red in the face from just _what_ he yelled in there, and Sam couldn’t contain his laughter, having to walk outside for a good ten minutes before he could speak without collapsing.

The warmth of the spray strips the chill from his bones, having become a permanent resident since they left Kansas. He washes with the undoubtedly expensive packaged soap left in the dish on the faux-marble sink, the scent of lavender and vanilla soothing his nerves, at least until he can hear the faint noise of flutes and chimes emanating from underneath the bathroom door. _He brought music_ , Dean muses, rinsing soap suds from his hair. It explains the second suitcase Castiel brought, probably stuffed with sound equipment and candles and whatever else they use in spa chambers. He wouldn't know.

Absently, he fiddles with the towel around his waist after drying his hair, unsure of whether or not to leave it on or just head into the room, bare as the day he was born. Nervousness seizes him—he’s naked. Castiel has never seen him naked. Castiel’s barely ever seen him with his _shirt_ off, and now he’s supposed to waltz out there and act like Castiel isn’t about to rub him down and turn him into a puddle just from one look. His cock twitches, aroused but terrified.

He can’t stay in the bathroom forever. Towel wrapped tight around him, Dean ventures out into the small hallway, the white noise of ambient music drifting into his senses, lulling him into false security. There’s no danger here, he tells himself. It’s just Castiel, and Castiel wouldn't do anything he didn't agree to. Castiel wouldn't do this if he didn't _care_.

That thought alone is enough to get him to walk into the main room, only the light streaming through the open blinds illuminating the bed, along with several taper candles set up on every flat surface imaginable. Castiel stands near the dresser, organizing several small bottles of liquids he can’t even begin to name, probably expensive scents from some designer boutique he ordered online just for the occasion. Sam would probably know what they are, considering Castiel’s been using him as a practice dummy.

Castiel’s expression is soft when he notices Dean, lips curled into the quietest of smiles when he ventures closer, close enough for Dean to feel the heat radiating off of him. He’s dressed in sweatpants now, his shirt apparently gone from existence; Dean itches to touch him, all of that smooth skin now available, the few freckles that dot his tanned skin, the one close to his nipple the most interesting. “I want you to lay on your stomach,” Castiel instructs, fingers tugging Dean’s towel free. Dean swallows under the new attention, fights back the whine that bubbles up when Castiel drops the fabric and palms Dean’s hips, letting them ride up his flank and come to rest atop his shoulders. “Let me take care of you.”

He won’t survive this—Castiel’s touch alone will kill him before he makes it to the mattress.

Somehow, he manages to drag himself away from Castiel’s hands; he crawls onto the bed with shame burning his face, knowing full and well the Angel is watching him and his bare ass as he settles down, thankfully on a towel and not the rose petals. Castiel joins him a short time later, Dean now still with his arms tucked under his head, face hidden from view. “You don’t have to be ashamed,” Castiel murmurs into his ear before coaxing his hands free, letting his arms lay flat at his sides. He can’t control the shivers that run through him now, nervous anticipation roiling in his blood.

 _This is Cas_ , he repeats, a mantra. _Cas won’t hurt you. Just lay here and enjoy it._

Castiel traces his spine a few times when he crawls over to straddle his bare waist, his fingers warm, almost a tease. If it were any other time, Dean would’ve thought it was sexual, just from the way he touches him, hands smoothing down to the small of his back before moving up, thumbs caressing his nape. “Relax,” Castiel soothes, lips pressed to that spot beneath his ear. Dean flushes harder and groans, wishing he could hide his face, hide the embarrassment that burns across his skin. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Easy for you to say,” Dean mumbles, eyes pinched shut. “Not used to the whole… ‘you touching me’ thing.” He wiggles his hips a bit, enough to get comfortable with Castiel’s weight pressing on him. “Where’d your shirt go, anyway?”

“It gets in the way,” is Castiel’s only reply.

Above him, Dean can hear Castiel pouring something flowery-smelling onto his hands, warming the liquid between his palms before he touches Dean’s back, slick and inviting. After that, Dean feels himself loosen under Castiel’s insistent touch, his fingers kneading every muscle in his upper back with the utmost precision, targeting just where he aches the most. His shoulders are one massive knot that Castiel unravels inch by inch, his thumbs working small, rough circles into him for what has to be thirty minutes before he finally lets up, much to Dean’s relief. “Gonna kill me,” Dean says, his voice muffled in the sheets, hoarse from groaning just minutes before.

“You carry too much weight in your shoulders,” Castiel scolds. He pours more of that sweet-smelling oil onto his hands and slides down, thumbs working along his spine and arching out, firm strokes that aggravate his earlier work but soothe. His arms follow, Castiel paying special attention to his palms, and at least once, Dean feels him kiss his fingers, almost feather light. “How does that feel?”

Dean can’t even bring himself to shrug; for once, he feels relaxed with Castiel’s hands on him, stroking his nape and sweeping down again, eventually working to his hips. His face burns hot again, just from how close Castiel is to his _ass_. “Good,” he slurs, eyes fluttering open briefly. It’s still snowing outside, the pines covered in white and slunk low with the weight. “Feel like you’re ‘bout to get frisky with me.”

Castiel laughs above him, low. “No,” he coos, patting Dean’s ass. “Not now, at least. Spread your legs for me.”

Dean snorts a breath and leans up onto his elbows, just enough to see Castiel crawling off of him and resting at his side, wetting his hands again. “You sure?” he teases. He flexes his shoulders experimentally, the tension previously held there gone; part of him wonders if more than oil was being rubbed into his skin, Grace possibly aiding his muscles in what has to be a rapid recovery time. It doesn't hurt as much as he figured it would when Castiel starts again, fingers massaging his thighs, dangerously close to between his legs. “Y’could, if y’wanted,” he admits before he can stop himself. His mind is only half working, lost in a haze between what he wants and what he’s not supposed to say around other people. 

But instead of being disgusted, Dean watches Castiel’s face soften, his lips quirking up at the edges; he presses a kiss to the small of Dean’s back, smirking there, just a little. “Later,” is Castiel’s only word before he scoots back down.

Dean luxuriates in the feeling for a while, drifting off while Castiel kneads his flesh down to the balls of his feet, working out spots he barely knew hurt until his leg spasms in near-violent jerks. Somewhere along the way, his dick decided to join the proceedings, a heavy weight pressed into the bed. Castiel kneads his thigh all the while, fingers skirting too close to his balls. Said hardness grows even more prominent when Castiel cups his ass, and somehow he doubts that actual masseurs do _this_ during their sessions, fingers pressing into the soft mounds and dipping into the crease. “Thought you said not now,” Dean grumbles, one eye open and his hips pushing down into the mattress against his will. _Damn_ his libido.

“I’m not,” Castiel lies. He stops, though, all at once his weight leaving Dean’s body and moving off to the side. “I need you to turn over.”

Dean swallows, blinks his one eye. “I… can’t,” he whispers and hides his face.

Castiel makes a noise like he’s amused, his fragrant hand petting Dean’s nape again. “It’s natural, what you’re feeling,” he offers, nonchalant. Dean just groans and covers the back of his head. This isn’t happening—he’s not about to turn over with a raging erection in front of his best friend. “It’ll go down if you don’t pay attention to it. Your brother—.”

Dean whines into the bedding. “Don’t talk about Sammy right now,” he begs, kicking his feet in lazy motions. He’s too loose to do much else, his bones, his _body_ , soft for the first time in what feels like a decade.

Strangely, thinking about his brother kills the need previously burning bright inside him, just enough for him to brave turning over, cock now half hard and softening against his belly. Castiel kisses his temple in praise and, thankfully, starts at his feet, caressing his ankles, gently over the fracture in his left foot, from a hunt three months ago that left him in a boot.

“Does it still hurt?” Castiel asks when he finishes, now sweeping over his thighs.

Dean hums a ‘no’ and turns his head, blinking lazily at the snow outside, flakes blowing past with a howl. Castiel palms up to his hips after a while, Dean pointedly ignoring his dick in favor of Castiel’s fingers splayed out over his ribs, increasingly gentle the longer he stays there. It’s almost a caress, he thinks, eyes pinched shut. Castiel shouldn't treat him like this, shouldn't be looking at him like he’s delicate, something fit to break if he touches him wrong. Dean tells him so, soft and rushed, fearing the emotion welling in his chest, behind his closed eyes. “After all the shit I’ve pulled…”

“You deserve this,” Castiel whispers against his lips, a secret between them. He straddles Dean’s waist with a tender look in his eyes, and just the sight of them brings Dean to tears, one slipping into his hairline. Castiel kisses his eyelids, kisses the salt away and savors it on his tongue. Dean tastes it when they kiss, his own apprehension weighing heavy on his heart, insecurities set loose when Castiel deepens his touch, slicked hands to Dean’s cheeks, Dean’s hands buried in Castiel’s hair.

It feels like a lifetime when Dean finally pulls away, Castiel resuming his kisses along Dean’s neck, where the oils haven’t touched but will soon. “Too soft on me,” Dean repeats, too lost in the feeling of Castiel’s mouth on him to say, to _think_ of anything else.

Castiel ignores his words and leans up, douses his fingers one last time. “I wouldn’t take you away just to treat you wrong,” Castiel muses with a grin, his fingers spread out over Dean’s chest. His heart beats a ragged rhythm against Castiel’s palm while he finishes, thumbs gracing his collarbone and dipping into the suprasternal notch. Dean swallows under the attention, lets his eyes close the longer Castiel pets there, gentle caresses that leave him winded. “I think, for once, you deserve to be handled with kindness, rather than being thrown into a wall.”

He should laugh, he knows; his heart isn’t in it anymore, though, not when Castiel leans down to kiss him again, a fleeting thing before a knock to the door interrupts them. “That’s dinner,” Castiel groans, such a petulant thing. Dean smiles into his last kiss before Castiel pulls himself from the bed, grabbing his shirt from the desk chair before he goes to the door. Briefly, he wonders if he should sit up or at least cover himself while Castiel is out of view; the effort is too taxing for him to consider, his body perfectly content to lay right where it is, warm and heavy in their bed, warmer than he’s been in a long, long while.

The click of the door shutting doesn't register until Castiel is once again at his side, the scent of meat wafting in the air nearby. “I thought you might like steak,” Castiel says, pulling the lid off of one of the two trays; his mouth waters just from the smell, his stomach making itself known to the both of them. Castiel chuckles; Dean just covers his eyes. “Do you think you can sit up?”

He shakes his head and lets his hand fall, eyes still wet with unshed tears. “’Less you plan on feedin’ me, don’t think I’m gonna get up any time soon.”

“I can, if you want.” Castiel just shrugs it off, like he didn't just offer to hand feed Dean whatever he’s got up there on that tray. Something about it just _sounds_ unsanitary, but before he can say anything, Castiel wanders off to wash the oil off his hands, taking the bottle he previously used with him. With the last of his strength, Dean manages to push himself up and sit, body and soul loose with content, his brain buzzing pleasantly. He can’t even begin to bring himself to care about the way Castiel touches him— _touched_ him—when he returns, now dry hands stroking over his face, down to his lips. “They also had a caramel apple pie.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Dean murmurs; he initiates the kiss this time, Castiel smiling against him when he pulls away, Dean’s face on fire. Maybe later when all of his faculties are working, they can discuss this, what it means when Castiel touches his cheek between bites, when Dean sucks his fingers into his mouth just to taste him, salt and sweat and _human_. He’s pleasantly full by the time Castiel finishes his own meal, a fettuccine that actually wasn’t half bad from what Castiel had offered.

“I don’t know why you bother with me, sometimes,” Dean admits halfway through their dessert, Castiel’s caramel coated fingers still stroking over his lower lip; Dean cradles his wrist and sucks the digits into his mouth, eyes half-lidded, looking anywhere but him.

Castiel pads his tongue before pulling free, letting his spit-slick fingers slide over Dean’s lips. “…There aren’t words in your language that can convey how I feel about you,” Castiel starts, eyes downcast. Dean aches to touch him again, to let himself feel every bit of skin offered, to kiss that look off his face. “You were so fragile when I found you, and at first, after I breathed life into your lungs, I wanted to protect you. Against the fabric of my existence, I wanted to hold you close to me again, like that would ease the ache every time I saw you. Every time I touched you, here.” Dean shivers as Castiel palms his shoulder, over the mark he can still feel on cold nights when his bones ache and Castiel isn’t close. “I loved you. From the moment I was tasked with your salvation, I loved you, and I still do.

“And I wanted to be loved by you.” He lowers his head, lets out a deep breath. Dean just watches him, takes one of his hands and kisses his fingers, letting them rest against his forehead. It feels like prayer, like he’s repenting when Castiel strokes through his hair, fingers coming to rest at his bare nape. “I saw the way you looked at me, I saw the way your soul ached to merge with mine, but you would always push me away. The lies and deceits, the fights… Yet you burned for me in the aftermath. You played off my affections like they meant nothing.” He stops to cup Dean’s wrist, pressing a kiss to the fragile skin underneath. Dean flushes, closing his eyes; it’s too much, too close to his heart to listen, to know that everything he says is true. “I wondered, what it would be like to kiss you. To lay with you at night—.”

“Kiss me,” Dean says, a declaration. Castiel looks up, tears spilling over and streaking his face, dripping off his chin. They’ve kissed before, just minutes ago, but this means more now—with the weight of Castiel’s love on his heart, bearing down on his very soul, almost a brand within itself. “I swear, I’ll never let you leave again if you kiss—.”

Castiel does, with very little finesse. He shoves Dean into the blankets and boxes him in, Dean panting between breaths as Castiel clutches him to his chest, until they’re touching along every possible point and Dean forgets that they’re two bodies, two creatures living two very different lives. For now, they’re one, closer than they’ve ever been, than a human and an Angel have the right to be. “Love you,” Dean pants close to his ear, Castiel’s mouth sucking a dark mark to Dean’s throat. “Love you so much, you idiot.”

They don’t let go of each other for a long while, both sprawled out like parentheses to each other, legs dovetailed; Castiel’s sweatpants scratch against his ankles, growing more annoying the longer they lay there. “Jacuzzi sounds nice right about now,” he grins, barely resisting the urge to hide his face.

Castiel chuckles. “I thought you might like that.” Reluctantly, Castiel disentangles their limbs and shifts off the bed, walking on unsteady legs over to the jetted tub in the corner of the room.

Dean watches him bend over to start the faucet, testing the water temperature before pulling the tab nearby, effectively closing the drain. The remainder of the pie sits on the tray two feet from his face, probably cold now; they can save it for later, hopefully, whenever they’re done in the tub. Based on how his legs feel, he may never leave.

With anticipation fueling his movements, Dean manages to worm himself out of bed and wanders to the bathroom along with his overnight bag. He brushes his teeth while Castiel stands in the doorway, waiting his turn. They do the same thing at home, sometimes with Castiel too impatient to wait, other times sharing companionable silence. Right now, it’s the latter; Castiel kisses his neck when Dean exits and closes the door behind him, the overhead fan kicking on.

Once in the room, Dean shuts the water off, now resting above the jets. Warmth caresses his skin when he slides in, and briefly he lets his head sink below the surface, open eyes watching the ripples floating above, soon settling out. Castiel comes in seconds after surface stills, his distorted expression somewhere between panic and amusement. “Drowning would inhibit our nice weekend,” he hears Castiel say, muffled.

Slowly, Dean rises and sucks in a breath, blinking the water out of his eyes. His heart stutters for an entirely different reason when he emerges, the sight of Castiel— _naked_ Castiel—almost too much to handle. _A weekend of firsts_ , he considers with a swallow. His eyes dart between Castiel’s face and his crotch when he joins Dean on the opposite side, the tub offering barely enough room for the two of them to sit without either having to bend their legs or perch them alongside the other’s head.

Dean opts for the latter, the water too warm to leave anything exposed for too long. Their legs scissor each other, Dean’s left foot resting beside Castiel’s head, Castiel’s left mirroring him. Their knees bend outward in the middle, heads tilted back against the edge.

“Don’t think I’ve ever had a birthday to myself,” Dean says after a while, his head lolled to the side while Castiel pets his thigh. He didn't realize how close they were before, their balls almost squashed together in the cramped space, only some force of will keeping them from pressing together. Part of him wants them to, wants to get a hand around Castiel’s dick and tug, get him off for the first time together. “Mean… Most of the time I was on the road, or dad just… forgot.”

“We threw you a party last year,” Castiel offers. He lets out a breath and sinks down, enough to finally press them flush together; Dean just _barely_ resists the urge to grind, to reach between them and fist their cocks together. “Did that not count?”

Dean shrugs. “Kinda did. But this is… different.” Glancing between them, Dean blinks, half-lidded. “Got you here. ‘N we don’t gotta worry ‘bout Sammy walkin’ in if we wanna get handsy.”

Castiel snorts, the water rippling under his nose. “You never cease to amaze me,” he quips. Leaning up, he pulls Dean into a kiss, Dean letting out a broken moan when Castiel gets a hand around his cock, already half hard from just being there. He’s never going to be able to sit in a Jacuzzi again. “Are you really that insatiable?” Castiel asks, serious.

Dean just huffs out a laugh when Castiel starts stroking, his voice straining the longer Castiel toys with the head, his fist warm and tight under the water. “You got me hard from a _massage_ , Cas. I’m kinda impressed I didn’t jizz all over the bed.”

“You’ve always been impressively responsive,” Castiel shrugs. Absently, Dean watches his hand move below the water, fingers working smooth trails down his length and back up with varying pressure, all of it drawing forth precome. Dean twists into his touch a bit, hips arching and inadvertently grinding down against Castiel’s balls. It can’t be comfortable—he’s probably going to have a leg cramp before this is over, but Castiel just pushes right back, letting his head fall onto the lip of the tub when Dean returns the favor, taking Castiel’s thick cock in hand.

For a while, all he hears is the sound of their mingling moans and the minute slosh of water around them; belatedly, he wishes they could’ve done this later, preferably on the bed where they could’ve cleaned up afterwards. He never really got to enjoy the bath—then again, they have all weekend to lounge around and watch the snow fall outside. Maybe he can teach Castiel how to build a snowman, or that igloo Dean knows he’s been planning to make, if they ever got enough snow in Kansas to do so. Now is their opportunity—now, alone in Tennessee, they can.

“Dean,” Castiel hisses through a groan, his chest heaving. He’s close, Dean can tell, his eyes already blown wide, lips in desperate need of kissing. Dean lets go of his cock and tucks his free leg back into the water before pushing himself up, now straddling Castiel’s waist, capturing him in a heated kiss. “Dean,” Castiel pants, again, Dean now stroking him in earnest, stroking his cockhead in quick bursts.

Castiel lifts his hips and comes without warning into the water between them, mouth agape as he shudders through his orgasm, his grip on Dean’s cock all but forgotten. He’s beautiful like this, Dean thinks, face flushed and pupils dilated, chest heaving through the aftershocks. “Came before me,” Dean whispers and nips at Castiel’s earlobe, Castiel only huffing an annoyed laugh. “Gotta get better at that.”

“We have time to practice,” Castiel says. Patting Dean’s hip, he urges him to lean up, Dean’s cock mere inches from his face, still hard and leaking in the warm air of the room; Castiel laps at his slit a few times before sucking him down, Dean’s only choice to hold on every time Castiel pulls back, lips stretched taut around his cock, eyes locked on his own. Castiel brings him to orgasm embarrassingly fast, throat working as he swallows down Dean’s release; he leaves a gentle kiss to the head as he pulls away, and Dean barely resists the urge to collapse on top of him in the aftermath, settling for slumping back into the water.

At least, until he remembers where they are. “You just _came_ in here,” Dean groans into Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel just laughs and shoves Dean away. “You made me,” he chides.

They stand after a while, Castiel handing Dean one of the two towels he set on the floor beforehand; Dean dries off and steps out, reaching a hand out for Castiel to take. He’s warm when they sprawl out on the bed together, Castiel pressed tight to his back, Dean facing the window with Castiel’s arms around his waist. It takes him a few minutes to speak, still high on the afterglow and the lazy contentedness of good food and an even better orgasm. “We should make this a tradition,” Dean says, his hands clasped over Castiel’s own.

Against his neck, he feels Castiel smile, lips hiding a kiss in his hair. “Of course,” Castiel tells him and pulls Dean closer, their bodies melding, seamless. “Is it selfish if I want to make up for all the ones we’ve lost?”

Dean watches the snow before he closes his eyes, the flakes dancing in his memory. So many years, and Castiel wants to celebrate all of them. The years they knew each other and conveniently forgot, the ones when he stayed in the hospital, the ones when he carted his brother around while John was God knows where. The ones at home, when they were all a family. He can start anew, this way—they both can. “’S not selfish,” he says, quiet. “Think that’s the best present I could get.”

Castiel kisses his nape and settles, his breath warm on Dean’s neck. “Rest,” he whispers. “You’ll get your present Sunday, in full.”

A laugh, and Dean holds him close, body going lax. “Look forward to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, Dean! Here's more me-not-working-on-important-things and finishing a six-thousand word fic in four hours. What's wrong with me. Also, thanks for Riley and Christy for betaing! Because apparently I can't read when I do it on my own.
> 
> It snowed like mad the mountains this weekend, but my area only got a dusting. I'm so disappointed. Hope everyone's trying to at least have some fun with this blizzard!
> 
> Title is from the Nickel Creek song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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